


The Secret Kept

by GranolaSuite



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Shower Sex, Teasing, Tiff, Toronto International Film Festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GranolaSuite/pseuds/GranolaSuite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're "the" secret girlfriend. You get the drift.</p><p>[If anyone has any 'prompts' they want to send through, please feel free... ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You find it hard to believe that all of this has happened so quickly. A respectable job within the world of ecommerce, a business degree, and clients coming out of your ears, but one chance meeting threw that all on its head. 

A dinner invite from a good friend sees you sitting in a Soho restaurant having a lively debate on the importance of social media in marketing celebrities these days. 

“Not important, not needed,” he argues playfully, with a wave of the hand. 

“Of course it’s needed. Wouldn’t you rather an official source of news as opposed to the amount of conjecture, rumour and speculation that spreads like wildfire,” you know this all too well, you’re been on those pages, not that you’d tell him in a fit. 

“Rumours die out; they run their course,” he dismisses, finishing the last of his beer. 

“Oh sure,” you laugh, “I think you should at least consider an official Facebook page, happy to set it up?” you offer. Of course you’d be happy to set it up; you’d happily do that for the chance at more interaction with him. 

He’s mimicking you as you finish your sentence, and you know that he’s known for his mimicking so you take it in your stride and start mocking him straight back. 

“Oh no,” you animate, “I don’t need social media because the world loves me just as I am. I don’t need social media, I can have my pick of women from anywhere in the world; one in each port,” you fail miserably at his accent, but have stolen his thick rimmed glasses and squint through them to the laughing of those at your table. 

“Now you’re getting the idea,” he laughs with them, “Benedict Cumberbatch does not do social media,”

“What a lot of tripe!” you cackle as he snatches he glasses back and heads to the bar, “Another drink?” You drag him over to the bar with you and engage him in a fiery debate about how he is possibly the biggest troll the internet has at the moment, using his friends and their social media presence to his advantage when it suits him. 

He’s still not having a bar of it, but he’s loving the debate and banter backwards and forwards. 

Five minutes later and you’ve swapped cell numbers. An hour later and you’re gasping for breath on the floor of your bedroom, having hotfooted it back to your place in a fit of laughter. The cab ride back involved raucous laughter and mimicking of all those you pass on the street, the best impressions saved for last as you fumble and stumble up the stair case to your bedroom. 

Soon, you’re sneaking around London, spending time together under the cloak of group functions; a close knit group of friends ensuring the privacy you beg them for. Your job is important and you can’t and won’t have it disrupted by the paparazzi that follow him around constantly. If this all goes to rack and ruin you still need to be able to function within the life that you know, as romantic as it would be to throw everything in and spend the rest of your days following him around the globe. 

Movie nights at home, home cooked meals and family dinners are well enjoyed, though you wish you could take him out in the street and scream at the top of your lungs that this is your boyfriend. But you just know what the fan base is like, and you’ve seen it in the past; every woman he’s photographed with is someone he’s apparently dating, and is then hounded until interest dies out. You don’t want that, and he respects your wishes. 

His latest film, the Imitation Game, is about to headline the Toronto International Film Festival, TIFF, and he’ll be gone a few days, again. He’s always gone a few days; a few days here, a few days there, a whole month in April and you were ravished by the time he arrived at your doorstep on his motorbike. You couldn’t get time off work for that, but for this event you want to be there. 

“How do you suggest we do that, Miss. Privacy?” he smirks at you’re both sprawled out on his back terrace, looking up at the night sky, the same scene featured in that Ice Bucket Challenge video. 

“What is it you always say in interviews?” you shoot a glance at him, a scruffy beard courtesy of the upcoming Richard III television movie, ratty old grey t-shirt and tracksuit pants, and those glasses. He knows you love those glasses, so has been wearing them a lot lately. 

“I don’t know, what is it I say in interviews?” he teases, “I do talk a lot of rot,”

Cuddling up to him, you muse with a tap of the chin, “Sometime about hiding in plain sight?” 

“Oh, that!” his eyes crinkle up into a smile. 

“You could need an assistant, or Karon could?” you suggest, “You know, you’re both busy people, another set of hands could very well be welcome,” 

“Hmmm,” he’s pondering the thought, getting lost in some very non professional thoughts along the way. 

“I could just wear pretty dresses and hand you a bottle of water occasionally, job done,” your leg is now hooked in with his and his right arm is up around your shoulders. 

He looks at you, at your face, and your hair, his chin stuck down in his neck, giving him those ‘chins’ the internet goes nuts for, “Let me talk to Karon,”

“Thank you, darling,” you smile, kissing him quickly, “Urgh, how long until this beard business is gone?”

“What’s wrong with the beard?” he follows you up off the ground, gathering up the blanket you’ve been laying on for the past hour, and into the house. 

“Bristly kisses,” you screw your face up, “I’m going to shave it off,” you threaten, “The minute you let me, it’s gone,”

“You going to shave it off for me?” he holds you now, the lovely darkness falling over his eyes, and you just know what’s coming next. 

“I am,” you let his tongue into your mouth as you tug gently on his hair, also coming along into a nice length; you thank Arthur Conan Doyle and his famous detective for that at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've arrived at Toronto

Two days later and you’re sitting in First Class of a British Airways flight from Heathrow to Toronto. So far, so good; you’ve managed to go unnoticed. Karon’s agreed to drag you along as an assistant of some kind. New to her agency, you’re learning the ropes so will be on hand with her at all times. You’ve gotten your own way this time, and couldn’t be more delighted, but it also means you both need to control yourselves in the face of flashbulbs and screaming fans. 

Bleary eyed and tired, the first thing you do when reaching Toronto is sleep off the jetlag while Benedict goes straight into a press junket for Penguins of Madagascar. You wake up to a loud banging on the door later on; Karon’s got the run sheet for the next day and you need to brush up on it. Eyes running over a long list of demands, you often wonder how he does it. It will be a full day of interviews following by the premier that night, a press conference and Q&A sessions with fans. You’ve got a clipboard and a pass to keep on hand should security stop you anywhere; hidden in plain sight, just as you suggested, and you can’t wait. 

You’re staying in adjoining rooms, for all that matters; another way to put everyone off the idea that you’re together. Benedict returns later that night, exhausted, eyes hanging out of his head. He almost looks drunk, maybe a little bit tipsy after social event. 

“Hey you,” you sit up on top of the bed as he comes into the room, pulling at his shirt buttons. 

“Guess what I need to do?” he gives you a mischievous grin. 

“Have sex?” hey, it’s worth a try. 

“Before that,” his shirt is off, pants not too far behind, and he’s walking around the room collecting a toiletry bag.

“Shave?” you hope!

“Yes, time for a trim at least,” he jiggles his toiletry bag, “Keen to do the honours?”

“Oh yeah,” you can’t get off the bed quick enough and drag him by the hand into the bathroom. 

The hotel room isn’t opulent by any standard, but it’s comfortable and well fitted out. It’s certainly not anything you’re used to in your life before him so it’s a lovely escape, albeit for a few days, to hang out in a posh hotel suite even if, still, you can’t take him by the hand and run around town. 

You sit him down on the chair wearing nothing more than his grey boxer briefs the world got a glimpse of last month and his dirty ginger beard and you start trimming as instructed. 

“You can’t take it all off, just a tidy up so it evens out,” he mumbles, worried that you’re just going to go to town with the razor and warm towel. 

“Aww, come on,” you play, “Please?”

“No,” he laughs, head back in the sink. 

You talk about his afternoon and night, and the night function. You’d been online earlier and you laugh together at the reactions to a photo of him and Eddie Redmayne in an interesting sort of embrace. That’s just what he does, he’s a hugger, and he’s trying his best to hug you while you’re doing your utmost not to do a complete shave. He’s pulled you in close enough that his chin rests between your breasts, his new favourite place, he laughs a low, throaty laugh as you tap him playfully on the nose. 

“Be careful, Batch,” you pinch his nose, “I have the razor here,” 

“That’s okay. I’ll tell them to fire my new assistant,” he jokes with you, “She can’t do her job properly, she’ll be out the door,” he’s giggling as his hands caress you, moving down you back over the fabric of your dress, over you backside and then back up your legs underneath the dress. 

You look down into his eyes. Those damned eyes, famous the world over, are much more beautiful than the internet gives them credit for, and his touch makes you feel like a teenage girl all over again. 

“Nearly done?” he questions.

“Uh-huh,” you’re trying not to look directly at him while you finish the task at hand. 

“So, you won’t be needing these, then,” he tucks a thumb in under each side of your underwear and yanks them down around your knees. 

“Maybe not,” you give in and kiss him gently, feeling his hands, those giant oversized hands, grazing their way back up your legs. 

A knock on the door and you’re interrupted by room service and their trolley. You didn’t realise you’d ordered a late night snack, and the bathroom door is open. So much for privacy. Quickly you pull your underwear back up into place and walk out into the main room of the suite. The porter looks confused. 

“Ah, this is for Mr. Cumberbatch,” he points at the trolley. 

You’re now acutely aware that half your dress is now missing into the back of your knickers and you can hear Benedict laughing in the bathroom. Good move, you tell yourself, great move, not making this noticeable at all. 

You smile graciously, eyes darting around, willing yourself to not turn your back on the porter, “Thank you,” 

“A tip?”

“Oh!” you move around room, facing him the entire time, the laughter getting louder and your embarrassment growing by the second. Are there mirrors in here? God I hope not, you think as you snake your way around to the bedside table. Yes, collecting your purse from Benedict’s bedside table is going to go completely   
unnoticed. 

Hidden in plain sight, indeed. 

“Are you okay ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” you’ve only got a twenty and hand it to him quickly; a bit tip, sure, but maybe that’ll keep him quiet, or maybe not. 

“Isn’t this Mr. Cumberbatch’s room?” he asks oddly, your cheeks rosy as you spot Benedict in the bathroom, ankle crossed over a knee and hand across his mouth laughing wildly. 

“It is,” you answer cautiously, “I’m his PA. Thank you,” you blurt, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

“Right, sure,” he nodded, “Well, just leave the trolley outside the room when you’re done,” 

“Thank you,” Please go now you think desperately, following him to the door; he’s now got his back to you as he walks out the door. 

“If you need anything else -,”

“Yes, thank you, good bye,” you’re pushing him out the door now and shutting it quickly; now you know how Sherlock felt getting his parents out of his flat. 

Before you even have a chance to pull your dress out of your underwear you feel two very strong arms around your middle. He’s snuck up behind you and drags you over and onto the bed where you spend the next few hours catching up properly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a glimpse at the day to day running of things. Gets better next chapter.... Promise ;)

The next morning starts early. Benedict is up and dressed before you, he’s used to this routine, but you need to clear out and be in your own room before a makeup team comes in to pretty him up for the day ahead. You bemoan having to get out of bed so early, particularly when he’s so nice and warm crumpled up beside you; those ginger curls falling everywhere, the nose crinkle, oh how do we love the nose crinkle, and the much shorter scruff that you decide you can live with quite easily. Getting out of bed is made much harder when you have to wake up to that every morning. 

He asks you to wear a particular navy blue dress that you’ve worn a few times with him. Not that he would ever tell you what to wear, but he tells you he likes it because it’s almost a match for a suit he has to wear that night for the premier, plus it’ll be an easy way for him to locate you. You agree and scramble to get yourself ready in time. A light smattering of makeup, much less than he has to endure, and you’re out in the street and heading towards press responsibilities and set up interviews for the day. 

It’s long and it’s boring and, as you sit in the room with him, you wonder again just how he manages it. The same questions, over and over again. This time, they’re focusing purely on the sexual orientation of the character he plays, Alan Turing, and he grows frustrated during the day at the fact that this is all people can seem to get from the film. 

“How are you going?” Karon stands in the background with you as you watch him work his magic on a reporter; quick as a flash you see his face darken and then pull back into the professional mode you’ve seen so often as he repeats verbatim a prepared or memorised answer to another banal question. 

“This is insanity, isn’t it?” you look at her and she gives you that looks that says ‘See, not quite so glamorous is it?’ Really, it’s not. 

The press conference leaves him angry, but you can’t comfort him. Constant questions about his “Cumberbitches” and why the director chose a straight actor instead of a gay one leave him fuming. You can see it written all over his face, an icy glare that, thankfully, has never been reserved for you (yet), and still they ask the same ridiculous questions. However, listening to him talk is one of the things on your favourite things to do list. He shuts down the ridiculous and subverts the mundane, trying to draw attention to the fact that he is not the only one in the film, regardless of what the media throng may think. 

You don’t get much of a chance to catch up back at the hotel as he changes quickly into that blue suit, premier ready. His hair is styled perfectly even with its extra length, makeup freshened and in to the waiting limo for the premier. Yourself, Karon and Benedict share the limousine to the theatre and he’s quite, pensive, and seemingly a little bit over it all. You say nothing, you have no words for him anyway because you don’t often see him in this mood, but you’re also a tad annoyed that you can’t comfort him without the eyes of the world on you. 

He embarks from the limo first, you and Karon not far behind and she instructs you to keep a decent distance, clipboard and papers on top; very official looking you are, even if it’s the first few pages of the Richard III script. Benedict comes over to you as you walk into the theatre and he checks what you’ve got on that clipboard. Random doodles and scribbles, and he laughs. 

“Learning my lines for me?” he teases. 

“Working on it, sir,” you can give as good as you take, and his eyes sparkle at the banter. 

“Sir,” he nods with a knowing grin, “I like it. Keep it up we might have to keep you,” 

You flush as he walks away; this could be fun. The allure of knowing that what you want is standing right in front of you, but you can’t touch it and you can’t have it. ‘Tonight is going to be great’ you smile at yourself as you watch him work his way through the crowd. Always so generous with his time, he knows he wouldn’t be anywhere without them, you watch as he signs autographs, takes photos, and plays with the throng of girls lined up screaming for him. And they really are screaming; it’s deafening but fantastic fun to watch him achieve this after working at his craft for so long. 

Instead of Karon, you get to take a seat next to him throughout the premier. Again, you can’t touch him in any way that will allude to a relationship of any kind. It’s you that doesn’t want the publicity; he’s told you plenty he’d be happy to shout it from the rooftops and be damned the consequences, but you won’t have it. 

The question and answer session after the film leaves you both embarrassed; Benedict for his co-stars, and your embarrassment is for him. Some women really let themselves down, and one particular question is a prime example of this. Standing up in front of the packed theatre, a fan asks if she can ‘feast on his deliciousness’. Okay, so you need to give it to her, he is delicious and you know that, you know it so well it’s not funny but is that something you need to announce to a packed room of fans and media? It’s likely that will see the light of day. 

His co-stars are laughing wildly, and he is hugely embarrassed and tried to reason with the crowd as to why he’s answering questions such as this at a press conference about a film that deals with a scientific genius. You resign yourself to the fact that you’d much rather be at home holding down the fort while he deals with these levels of insanity.


	4. Chapter 4

Benedict throws himself down into the limo at the end of the Q&A, you don’t have a lot of time together before you need to hotfoot it back to London. Your trip is over just as it’s beginning. He grumbling angrily and muttering about the ridiculousness of reports and stupid questions. It’s just the two of you in the car, Karon is not far behind, and you press the button on the side of the door, a privacy window giving you exactly that and you grab his hand with a gentle squeeze. 

“How was your day?” he looks at you, trying to distract himself. 

“Okay,” you nod, “Boring as bat shit, actually,”

It’s not long before you’re back at the hotel. You’ve picked up your trusty clipboard and a bottle of water as flashbulbs go off around you. It’s a work just getting into the hotel, adding to his already unimpressed mood. His fingers rap on the back wall of the elevator as you travel to your room quietly. You watch him and his eyes meet yours, still frowning though and for a moment you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. 

“Clark Kent,” you tease, gesturing to his glasses. You’ve been online this afternoon and already the fandom is at work making edits and comparisons with the glasses. 

“Huh?” he doesn’t quite get the reference, surprisingly. 

“It’s okay, doesn’t matter,” you wave a hand at him as the elevator stops and you step out onto the landing in front of your room. 

He’s pacing the suite, alternating between grumbling and ranting while you walk around him, pouring two glasses of wine. 

“Thank you,” he mutters as he takes a glass from you, “I mean, why do we need to see a gay man having sex to know that he’s gay?” he’s reasoning, “I’m an actor, I get paid to portray a gay man, it doesn’t mean I need to get my cock out for all and sundry,” 

You snort at his latest rant, “Imagine the fandom,” 

Turns out Mr. I Hate Social Media is quite happy to look over your shoulder whilst you catch up on the latest goings on in the world of Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. You remind him of this hatred each time you want five minutes alone to laugh at content branded as NSFW. You often call it Not Safe For Benedict and force him out of the room. 

He’s drinking very quickly, and you know you need to be ready for the airport shortly. A refill of the glass and you ask him if he’s feeling delicious yet or not, collapsing into a fit of laughter, which riles him up further. He’s rambling, all arms as his hands flail about, getting slightly tipsy the more he drinks. 

You walk over to him and take the glass from him, placing it on the bench. He’s had enough, you don’t want him stonkered before you get on a flight back to London. 

“Ben, it’s okay,” you smile, “Really, it’s okay,”

“No it’s not,” he grumbles, letting you pull his tie out and remove his jacket, careful not to crumple it in a pile on the floor. 

“Why not?” you can’t help but rile him up again. 

“I’m being objectified,” 

“Uh-huh,” a hand on the nape of his neck and you pull him into you, “And?” a gentle kiss and he’s yours again. 

His hands grip your hips, firm and deliberate, before those long, delicate fingers trace their way over your backside, drawing you into him. That familiar strain of fabric tells you what he wants, and you have no hesitation in helping him out of his shirt. Your hands glide across his shoulders and over his back as you push the crisp white number off, where it lands in a crumpled heap at his feet. 

“Is that door locked?” his eyes snap up at you, and they’re fiery, they’re angry, and they know just what they want. 

“Yes,” of course it is, you’ve wanted him alone all day; no one is getting in your way now. 

“Good,” he nods, letting you pull him in for another kiss. 

The air shifts, like he’s remembered something that’s annoyed him and before you know it his glasses are tossed to the side and you laugh at the Clark Kent comments once more. 

“What?” he’s mumbling as he buries his lips on your neck, hands everywhere and pulling at your underwear again. 

“Nothing,” you’re fisting at handfuls of his hair, his breath hot and sticky against you, “Tell me again how much you loved the questions today,” 

He growls, and you’ve been lifted up onto the small sitting table behind you. Your legs are around him instantly as you reef at his belt and zipper, freeing him of his pants. He steps out of them quickly and pulls you back into him once more. You’re still completely dressed, with the exception of your underwear, and he reaches behind you and yanks the zipper of your dress, snapping it on the way down. Neither of you care; he’s angry, and you’re happy to play along with the game to its conclusion. 

Without a word, he pulls you up off the table, desperately kissing you, biting your lips as he goes. 

“Get your dress off,” he demands, pulling it up over your head. 

You comply and, before you’ve freed your hands of the dress, he’s taken a nipple in his mouth, your skin pebbling underneath his touch. A warm wet tongue swirls around gently and you take his hair in a fist and tug gently, a quiet yelp as he bites down gently. Your immediate thought at this point in time is that you want him to come home angry more often, especially if it results in this. 

He guides you over to the bed and you crawl over to the centre and wait for him, his cock standing to attention, just waiting patiently for the consideration it needs. He catches you looking at it and stops just above you as he crawls over the bed. 

“Yes?” he cocks an eyebrow at you, willing you to give him an answer. 

“Oh, nothing,” you smile, pulling him down on top of you. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, this time pulling at a fistful of your hair. 

You smile and watch his face; he’s not serious, rather he’s enjoying this. That’s what you get for pulling at his hair, you know he hates it. 

“I want you,” you tease with a smile, “All of you,” 

“Why?” his hand is now out of your hair and splayed out over your neck, making the slow glide down the front of you, all the way down the front of you until he reaches your thigh, taking hold and guiding it up over his hip. 

You can’t quite work out what you’ve done to deserve this man in your life, but you soon forget what you’re thinking about. He’s inside you, right inside you, and you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be at that point in time. There’s groaning, and animalistic sounds coming from the both of you. He’s angry, and he’s taking it out on you, his thrusts are solid, deliberate, and powerful. 

A knock on the door and you stop dead silent. 

“What?!” he calls out. 

“We need to go in half an hour, Ben!” It’s Karon. 

“Okay!” he answers her before looking at you, “Can’t even shag my girlfriend without being interrupted,” 

You reach up and grab a handful of his hair again, “So make it count then,” you challenge him with a smile, pulling him down into you again. 

He moves in and out of you effortlessly, two large, solid hands on your backside, pulling you into him. Your back arches to try and take more of him, even though you don’t think it’s possible. He’s up on his hands, face frowning, mouth open just that little bit, which you love, and you’ve got your hand up his neck and shoulders, feeling the lines of his body. Your spare hand is on his backside, encouraging his thrusting. 

“I’m a serious actor,” he complains, an odd topic in the middle of a shag. 

“I know that,” you sooth, taking his mouth again. You just want him to shut up and kiss you, you love his mouth on you, anywhere on you, and you hope that satisfies him. 

“I’m not,” he’s puffing, “Just a piece of meat,”

“But you are delicious,” you tease with a smile, just pulling back enough that he can see you. 

You make eye contact, and the final stretch is coming. He has no problems making you cum, and tonight is no exception. You’re on a time limit, though you wish you had all night, and he ramps up his effort. A gentle slap on the back of your thigh becomes something harder, sending chills through you as you will him to repeat it, again and again. 

“Kiss me,” you demand, pulling him down into you again. 

Now you’re a mess of limbs, holding and touching and you can feel your end coming. The burning and wanting as you encourage him, harder and harder you groan in his ear and he groans back to you about how much he loves doing this to you and with you. One hand fisting bed sheets, and the other with a firm grip on that arse that you love so much and you cum, all facets of your body tightening around him; he gives out not long after you and you feel that familiar throb as his body joins yours in the silence that’s fallen over the room. 

“You should be angry more often,” you scratch at his head which is buried in the nook of your neck. 

“I should?” 

“Should bring out Khan next time,” you tease and he groans at your bad joke. 

“Oh come on,” you laugh, “Shall we begin? Yes, yes we shall,” you’re laughing at your own bad joke as he pulls out of and away from you, leaving you splayed across the bed. 

“I’ll think about it,” the cheeky smile tells you there’s already an answer to that, “Get dressed, we’ve gotta go,”


	5. Chapter 5

Flights from Toronto to London generally take about eight hours, and Benedict is determined to get some sleep; he’s exhausted from non-stop commitments the past few days and so takes a blanket and reclines. 

“And just what are you planning on doing for the flight?” Benedict asks, looking at you curiously. 

“Onboard entertainment,” you quip, watching him settle in. 

“You should get some sleep, too,” he encourages, now changed out of his suit and into more sleep friendly casual wear. 

“Do you think so?” you smile down at him before realising that, when out in public, you aren’t supposed to be a couple, rather you’re supposed to be working in his PR team. 

“Yes, a good PA needs to be rested,” his smile peeps at you from under the blankets. 

“Well, I shall do what my employer is asking then,” you can give as good as you get and request a blanket from the flight steward. 

Settled in and laying on your right side, you’re now facing him as he rests with his eyes closed. Cheekily you reach forward and tap the end of his nose, his mouth stretching into a grin. You lay there a few minutes with your eyes closed before moving yourself closer to him. A thought crosses your mind and you readjust your blanket, making sure it covers you, and some of him. If anyone asks it’s all innocent. No one needs to know. 

He’s still awake and you can tell that by his breathing. Reaching through the blankets, you find his hand and give it a gentle squeeze, which he responds to with his own warm squeeze. It feels all kinds of sneaky doing this hidden in plain sight, and you like it. It’s your secret, and no one around you is aware of anything different.   
The lights dim in the cabin and everyone around you battens down for sleep; eye shades on, ear plugs in. If this were an episode of Cabin Pressure, and you were Arthur Shappey, you’d be saying ‘Brilliant’ right about now. 

Sleep takes you both for the better part of the flight and you awaken later to find him laying there, watching you. You fish your cell phone out of your pocket and, in the cover of your blanket, you send him a text message telling him how much you enjoyed the hotel room, and what parts in particular you enjoyed about it. 

“Go away,” you can hear his voice grumble from under his blanket, which he’s pulled back up over his head. 

You snigger and try again, “Can I sit on your lap?” you whisper. 

His reaction is almost immediate, a deep, rumbling chuckle erupts beside you, and “No you cannot,” follows very quickly on your phone. 

“But, Captain Creiff -,” you feign offence. 

“Shooooosh,” he’s trying as hard as he can to not laugh too loudly. 

“What if I want to see the cock.... pit,” you hardly make it through your sentence before you pull your blanket up over your head, trying to stifle the laughter erupting from you. 

“Shut up,” he snaps. 

“The captain’s chair of sex,” you purr as you double check to make sure there is no one around you watching. Thankfully the chairs of others are far enough apart that you can have a rather successful whispered conversation. 

“If you do not stop it, I will have you sent down to the cargo hold,”

“With the otters?” you tease, another Cabin Pressure reference, “I much prefer the one I’m with right now,”

His eyes are still closed, and you reach out under the blankets and place a hand on his chest. Warm and solid, his hand holds it there in its place for a while, the two of you quiet and resting. It’s nice to lay back and enjoy the intimacy as you can get it, fingers tangled together, stroking each others’ hands gently. Eventually you pull your hand away and run it down the front of him, tucking your fingers under the waist band on his pants your hand rolls over his hip gently before it comes to rest on his stomach. Again, he takes your hand and holds it steady against him, rising and falling with each breath. 

There’s a light smattering of hair running from his navel downwards and you scratch at it gently, moving lower with each scratch. Moving down the front of him, you find the tie on his tracksuit pants. A gentle tug and the knot in front of them comes apart. 

“Prepare to disembark,” you mumble, and he chuckles in response. 

He doesn't try and stop you; in fact, he appears to be enjoying this, despite being in a very public space. Well, you are covered in blankets, so no one can actually *see* what you’re doing. He sighs as your hand finally reaches down the front of his pants. 

“My hands are starting their descent, Captain,” you whisper, only loud enough for him to ear. 

“Be quiet,” he’s smiling, but well aware that there are people around you, and wants no one to cotton on to what’s happening under your blankets. 

He allows your hand to descend further, taking his length in a tender grip. You stroke him gently, once or twice, just enough to start the required action and suddenly you have those beautiful eyes baring down on you again, peeking out from under the blanket. It elicits a cheeky smile from you, you love to see those eyes when no one else knows what’s happening. 

Teasing becomes the name of the game. You run a singular finger around his root before it moves along the shaft, a groan letting you know he’s enjoying himself. A   
hand reaches down and he uses it to tell you what he wants, how to hold him. 

You’re in complete control of his enjoyment now, his cock stiff in your hand. You stroke again once more, an involuntary flex of his hips and you let go immediately, the last thing you need anyone to see is him thrusting in and out of your grip. 

“Keep still,” you whisper, “Don’t very well want this in the headlines,” you tease. 

He sighs heavily, maybe in disgust, maybe in frustration, or maybe in resignation, but still you continue to tease him. Hard, soft, slow, fast, never quite giving him what he wants, not establishing the rhythm that he needs to achieve his release. You start to wish you’d taken this to the toilet, the mile high club has an allure now. Then again, you can’t say he’s getting all the fun, this is quite the challenge. 

His skin smooth to the touch and he shifts uncomfortably, knowing he’s not going to get the release he craves so much by this point. His hand grips your wrist and holds you still, stopping the slow painful stroke you were administering. Eyes burning into you, you know it’s time to stop. One of you has to be sensible. His face frowning, jaw clenched, he moves your hand away and back towards your own chair. 

The lights reappear in the cabin and the Captain makes the announcement that the flight will soon come to an end. People around you start to awaken unaware of what has happened between the two of you. Benedict has hardly enough time to compose himself before overhead luggage is collected and you’re making your way through the arrivals. 

Luggage collected, a car is waiting to take the three of you back into London. Karon is dropped off first, leaving you both 20 minutes in the car before arriving at Benedict’s house. 

“Anything you need, sir?” you look at him, his hair tousled, glasses on, and casual clothes. 

“Yes, if you’d like to come inside I need you to revise my schedule for the next week,”

“Could this wait, Sir?” 

“Now,” he demands.


	6. Chapter 6

Hot water washes over you as you lather your hair up for the second time. It feels amazing to wash the grime of the flight off and you stand there for a while just savouring the feeling. Benedict is downstairs somewhere, you don’t know where. He mentioned something about a pot of tea and some toast. 

“Are you still in there?” his voice playful and not at all scolding. 

“I am,” you play right back, “Got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” he’s shuffling out of his clothes now and you can hear the tap of his glasses as he places them on the vanity unit. 

The shower door opens, a gush of cold air, and you reprimand him for that intrusion at least. Jokingly, he offers to leave and you pull him back in by the hand, again complaining about the cold air. He stands still a moment, watching you, reaching behind your ear and tugging at the wet tangle of your hair. 

“You know, you’re lucky we didn’t get caught in the plane,” he smiles, pulling your face to his for a very soft, gentle kiss. 

“No one could see,” your eyes crinkle up into a playful smile as you hold him by the hips. 

“Feel like taking off where we were interrupted?” 

“Is your tray table stowed away and your seat in an upright position?” you match his lame attempt at humour, kissing him deeper. 

“Well,” he mumbles, water cascading down his head, face and shoulders, “Something’s upright and I guess you could use it as a chair,” 

You laugh together as warm, wet hands glide over your front and down your sides before coming to rest on your arse with a firm grip; a tingling sensation prickling at your skin as he goes. Pulled into his chest you can feel his erection, throbbing and twitching against your stomach, not at all offensive, and you take it in your hand with the firm grip you know he loves. 

The tiles are cold on your back as he pushes you into them with a thud. An involuntary reaction sees your back flex, forcing you back into him. Your knee is raised, up over his hip and he takes your hint, lifting you up against the wall and down onto him. Your sigh is one of relief, thanks, completion as you feel him move further inside you. You don’t get nearly enough alone time, so the past few nights have been exceptional. 

“Such frown lines,” you tease your thumbs across his forehead as he replays a slow, steady rhythm, in no rush to make this end. 

He pouts, but not for long; his face breaks into a cheeky, relaxed smile and he asserts his place with a forceful thrust. 

“That’s better,” you tempt him, “Much better,” 

He tries again, and again, holding you up against the wall as he drives himself into you over and over again. Your head buried in his neck and shoulder, you pepper him with kisses, the taste of hot water and salty skin in no way objectionable. 

“She was right, you know,” you mumble, water bubbling away around your lips, still connected to his shoulder. 

“Who?” 

“That girl,” you’re teasing, but he hasn't cottoned on, “You do have a certain deliciousness about you,” 

A throaty chuckle erupts as a hand reaches between you, a gentle finger exploring. It finds your clit and he starts to give you what you need, slowly at first, a gentle tease, before building up. He knows you and he knows your body well; well enough to stop just at that crucial point. 

Your head flops back against the wall, heavy eyes peering out from under your lashes. Payback’s a bitch and you smile at him, knowing exactly what he’s doing. There’s that devilish smile again and you laugh at each other. 

“So cruel,” he taunts, “So very cruel,” he’s steadied himself now, and there’s no movement from either of you. 

You pout at him, hoping to sway him. His own needs win out moments later and he starts moving again; slowly, slowly, and you have your arms wrapped around his shoulders, helping him take your weight. A gentle push back from him and he finds your center again, both of you working at speed to get to your end. 

He braces you both against the wall as you tip over the precipice, dragging him along with you, the overwhelming sensation of him filling you almost as good as the orgasm itself. Stillness overtakes you both as you enjoy the afterglow momentarily. As if to hurry you along, the hot water is losing its heat and you wash each other quickly, returning to a domestic state in far too much of a hurry. 

A brief discussion and, for the moment, you both agree your high flying days are over. Until such time of course as they cannot be avoided. With that in mind you wait until you've eaten dinner that night before sneaking out in the cover of darkness, into a black cab, and onward home. Back to your job, and back to your 9 -5 grind; happy to have him, and happier still to be holding down the fort for him.


End file.
